


incredibly simple and very destructive

by violet_vernet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sherlock December Ficlets, more tags as the story develops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_vernet/pseuds/violet_vernet
Summary: Here are my Sherlock December Ficlets 2018 (as many of them as I can hit, anyway). There will be an overall connecting story, even if I don't fill every prompt.(Update - this isn't abandoned, it's just tabled.)





	1. (Dec 3) All Dressed Up

Sherlock couldn’t stop looking at John out of the corner of his eye. While he was ostensibly working the room and keeping an eye out for their suspect, every time his gaze swept across John Watson there was a split-second electric fizz in his blood more addicting than the first heady rush of cocaine, and he kept coming back for a little hit whenever he thought he could get away with it.

He just didn’t know John could _look_ like that.

As petty and insignificant a detail as that was, Sherlock’s mind was stuck on it; it was like a song in one’s head that would not go away. He had a sudden etymological epiphany as he felt his mind chewing at the strangeness of John’s appearance over and over and accomplishing nothing, like a beast ruminating in a field. Even worse was that he was pleased by the distraction, that it was interesting rather than irritating.

John looked… good. Which was fine, Sherlock knew it was fine; it was all transport, and it had never been a problem Sherlock couldn’t move past, before. So why couldn’t he shake his mind loose from the loop it was currently running in, this time? How could he focus his observational powers on the room and find their suspect if he was so drawn to John’s stupid perfect suit? It was no surprise, after all, that John would buy (or, knowing him, more likely rent) a new suit for the occasion, since Sherlock knew very well what John owned and there was nothing elegant enough for this particular Christmas Gala in his wardrobe. So what was the problem? Maybe it was seeing John slip into this posh, polished state so effortlessly that Sherlock’s powers of deduction found so disconcertingly uncharacteristic that they kept returning by trying to resolve the incongruent--

Oh. There was John by the punch bowl.

Perhaps it would be more convincing to carry a drink around, even if Sherlock didn’t drink it; that’s what people did at these things, wasn’t it?

* * *

Later. They’d finally managed to identify their suspect and apprehend him from among the rich dinner guests without alarming anyone. Lacking its usual brisk chase and dramatic conclusion, the quiet end to this case seemed almost anticlimactic. They summoned a cab to take them home, and John held open the door for Sherlock, who felt his pulse thundering in his ears anyway.

Sherlock unlocked the door to 221 and, behind him on the stoop, John murmured, “It’s good to be home, I’m done in” as he loosened his exquisite silk tie. (“ _Where_ did he find that tie,” Sherlock’s inner monologue hissed, “ _How_ did he find it, and where did he learn how to _do that_?” as John unbuttoned his collar and exposed some of his throat.) They climbed the stairs to 221B in silence, then John sank into his chair still fully dressed while Sherlock hung his coat and jacket on the pegs in the hall.

“John, you’ll wrinkle the suit if you lounge in it like that,” Sherlock tried to say in an indifferent tone, but he saw John’s boneless slump tense a little.

“You don’t have to talk down to me, Sherlock, I’m well aware you think I can’t be trusted with this expensive of a suit,” he said, not looking up. “I’ll have you know you don’t need to be born a posh git to know how to wear one.”

“John! I wasn’t -- I didn’t --” For once, Sherlock was speechless; he hadn’t expected John to say anything like this at all, and had no idea how to respond.

“Then why were you staring at me all night?” John asked, sounding tired and rhetorical. Sherlock froze for just a second longer than was necessary, and it caught John’s attention. ”Okay, what did I do, then? What mortifying oversight gave me away as an unwashed commoner? Was I wearing last season’s pocket square? Was it the Tesco aftershave?”

“No, John, you were… everything was perfect.” Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize he was still standing by the coat hooks, cleared his throat, and stalked off to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Once inside his sanctuary, he huffed sharply at himself and thought, “What the _hell_ was that?”


	2. (Dec 4) Snowball Fight / Winter Sports

The morning after the gala, Sherlock woke up cautiously optimistic that he’d be “back to normal” after he’d gotten a good night’s sleep (three whole hours, in fact) and now that John was in his usual state of dress.  He’d already set up and run most of an experiment in the kitchen and was studying samples of the results under the microscope when John came in, yawning and frowning and reaching for the kettle.  Something in Sherlock’s stomach went off like an alarm, and he was disappointed (and yet... not) to see that it was still happening.

He fervently hoped John hadn’t noticed anything strange about his behavior since last night (or at least, not more so than usual; he was glad his frequent habit of becoming terse and uncommunicative covered a variety of sins).  He still wasn’t entirely sure what was causing the distracting symptoms yet, let alone was he prepared to explain why he was staring again to a possibly irritated John.

As Sherlock set the last slide down and made notes of his observations, he decided he needed something else to focus on. Standing up abruptly, he said, “Care for a walk, John?  I’ve been meaning to visit the natural history museum and examine some of the specimens from the “[ Venom: Killer and Cure ](http://www.nhm.ac.uk/visit/exhibitions/venom-killer-and-cure.html) ” special exhibit before it leaves, so if we’ve got nothing on…”  
  
“Sure, I could go for some fresh air,” John replied, brightening.  “Do I have time for a cuppa?  Ooh, or we can stop at Hyde Park Winter Wonderland for a coffee, if you want to get going.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes, but made the gesture that indicated it was John’s choice.  “Winter Wonderland it is, then,” John said, grinning.

 

Despite Sherlock’s impenetrable silence on the walk through Winter Wonderland and most of the way through the museum, John seemed content to cruise alongside him, leaning in occasionally to examine an exhibit tag, with a faint but unmistakable smile grazing his face.  Sherlock was able to satisfy his own curiosity about the venomous creatures he’d come to see with only half of his attention; he was focusing the other half on John as unobtrusively as possible.  What was so different about John now, even today, and why was needing to identify it so... compelling? Was it John’s good mood, presumably from the lighthearted adventures they’d had that day?  No, Sherlock’s agitation started before he ever suggested leaving the house.  It had never let up since last night, if Sherlock was being honest with himself.

 

As they were leaving the museum, they wandered past the holiday ice rink outside.  “What do you say, Sherlock?” John asked, nodding towards the skate rental booth with a grin.

“Mmmmm, no,” Sherlock said primly, although as he turned away he was struggling to keep his mouth from twisting into a smile.

“I suppose after the trip through Winter Wonderland and the visit to the museum on the same day, it is a bit much to expect you to keep having fun,” John said.  Then after a minute, Sherlock felt a hard thwack in the middle of his back.

“Did you just… throw a _snowball_ at me?” he demanded, whirling around and narrowing his eyes at John. 

Instead of replying, John just smiled, then threw the second one he’d already prepared and dashed off behind a hedge, just as Sherlock scooped and tossed his own snowball.  They were still laughing and scuffling around the pavement when John collided with a random passer-by, who harrumphed at them. John pulled an exaggerated “Excuse me!” face at the stranger’s back, and they giggled even harder. 

Then they paused for a moment to catch their breath, and made eye contact.  Sherlock could swear he saw the almost-manic hilarity in John’s eyes relax into a… a sort of a fondness, he thought.  But as soon as even a trace of the beginning of this thought crossed Sherlock’s mind, one of those buzzing jolts ran through him, and he turned away from John both physically and mentally.

“Really now, John,” Sherlock said, brushing some snow from his coat. “I think I’ve had enough frivolity for one day.  We should really get back to Baker Street so I can write up what I observed at the exhibit.”  Without waiting for a response, he set off for home.

So he didn’t see the rather radiant smile on John’s face as John followed behind him.


	3. (Dec 5) Mistletoe / Decorating

When they got home from the museum, John took off his coat, but did not sit down.  “It was such a fun, festive morning I was thinking about keeping the momentum going and decorating the flat,” he said, as Sherlock immediately ensconced himself at his microscope again.  “What do you think?”   
  
Sherlock shrugged.  He wasn’t really even interested in the experiment; he was planning to use the microscope as an excuse to sit in the kitchen and watch John all afternoon.  If John were similarly distracted stringing up fairy lights, all the better.

While John was out of the way enlisting Mrs. Hudson’s help and rummaging through 221c for their stored decorations, Sherlock took the opportunity to change into pyjamas and a dressing gown, and exchange the components of the completed experiment with some ingredients he could more convincingly fiddle with to give the illusion of being busy. By the time John returned, he was ready to settle in for a long afternoon of observation.

John came back with several storage bins of decorations and worked around the flat for a while.  It got dark incredibly early, as it tends to during the winter in London, and Sherlock begrudgingly admitted (silently, to himself) that the fairy lights did make the flat seem warm and homey.    


Sherlock watched John humming around the flat, and thought suddenly in a bemused sort of way that the strange bursts of feeling must be what “happy” was like. They were always centered around John, their seamless partnership regarding The Work, and their incomprehensible but undeniable compatibility as friends.  Yes, as Sherlock explored that avenue of thought it became clear that that was definitely the issue, and Sherlock was relieved to have identified it.  It was kind of funny how long it took him, he thought, but then he’d never expected to be _happy_ because of _another person_.

“Takeaway, Sherlock?” John called from the sitting room, where he was building a fire.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock responded distractedly, or so he hoped.

“Right.  So, two of whatever I order then, or I won’t get any,” John said.  Sherlock didn’t answer, but could not suppress a grin behind his microscope.

Sherlock could hear John placing the order, and then it seemed like just minutes later the doorbell rang, surprising him.  But then John called him to the top of the stairs, and instead of their pad thai, Sherlock could see the lower branches of a Christmas tree John had ordered for delivery from Pines and Needles.     
  
“For £35 I could have gotten the premium service of ‘erected in its stand by kilted delivery guys,’” John snickered, “but I could only afford the basic delivery-only package for £20. It did come with a complimentary mistletoe, though. But I think I’m going to need you to help me drag everything into the flat.”   
  
Between the two of them, they just managed to get it upstairs and onto the tree stand.  “Now here, Sherlock, put some of these on it,” John said, pressing a box of iridescent plastic icicles into his hands before he could find a way to refuse.  By the time the doorbell rang again, somehow they’d decorated the whole tree.

While John got their food onto plates, Sherlock picked up the stray pine boughs they’d broken off the tree while carrying it, and threw them into the fire to make the flat smell good.  Then they ate in their chairs in companionable silence.    


When they were finished, John said “Well, I suppose I should hang that mistletoe as soon as possible for the best chance at success,” and made what Sherlock presumed was a suggestive face.

Stunned into rudeness, Sherlock said “Yes, John, I guess you’ll need to start tryouts right away if you expect to have a girlfriend by Christmas.” 

“Hey, that’s not -- Sherlock, I didn’t mean -- ” John stammered, looking highly uncomfortable for some reason, instead of angry as Sherlock would expect him to be after such a biting comment.  While Sherlock was still irritated with the whole topic, John’s unanticipated reaction took the wind out of his sails.

“It’s fine, John, it’s actually none of my business.  S-- sorry.”  He stood and cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly.  “Well, busy day ahead tomorrow, I promised to interview suspects with Gareth --”   
  
“Greg,” John interrupted.

“Greg. Of course.  Good night, John.” A pause; and then, gentler, “Thanks for dinner.”  Sherlock tried not to give himself completely over to a strop and actually flee the sitting room, but he also couldn’t help being stung that the pleasant atmosphere they’d been building all day had to be soured like that.


	4. (Dec 6) cold / cozy

Sherlock actually only stopped in his room long enough to snatch some cigarettes from their hiding place and throw his coat on over his pyjamas. Then he was out the window and onto the fire escape over Mrs. Hudson’s bins. 

He spent a decent amount of time contemplating the futility of sentiment, and how well the weather matched his mood. What was the point of _caring_ when it always, inevitably, ended in tears?  If John didn’t find another Mary, he’d surely reach the limit of what he could tolerate from Sherlock eventually and leave anyway. This is what indulging in “happy” got him.  Better to be out here in the icy darkness, with the wind whipping around him and numbing him. Better to be alone.

Sherlock had almost run out of cigarettes and was contemplating slipping inside to get more when he heard John’s window open above him. “Sherlock?” John said, then he was out on the fire escape too.   _Ugh, too late._

“Wasn’t looking for company,” Sherlock said, pointedly taking a drag and exhaling without making eye contact.

“Didn’t ask,” John replied.  “So you probably didn’t hear a word I said to your bedroom door, did you? Is this always where you are when I think you’re ignoring me?”  
  
“No, sometimes I’m actually ignoring you.”

“Ouch.  Well look, you berk, I don’t know what you did to deserve it, but I’m sorry the evening went the way it did and I was hoping you’d come inside and see this last thing before you go back to brooding out here where you can catch a byronic illness and expire.” 

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said acidly, trying desperately not to shiver.

“Come. Inside.” John insisted, so he made a big show of sighing and rolling his eyes before he flicked his filter into the alleyway and ducked inside his bedroom window. 

John followed, but somehow got around and in front of Sherlock before he could open the door to the hallway.  “I’ll just go first,” he said, grinning, then threw open the door and dashed off to the sitting room.  By the time Sherlock arrived, he’d pushed the button on the stereo remote and Sherlock’s favorite Christmas carol, a classical violin duet, was playing softly in the background. 

“Okay, sit here, and I’ll be right back,” John said, pointing at Sherlock’s chair expectantly.  Sherlock sat, his wounded feelings from earlier finally starting to give way to the now-familiar electric buzzing.  As terrible as Sherlock had been to John tonight, John was still determined to enjoy Sherlock’s company.  There hadn’t even been any scolding about the smoking.  In fact, it looked like John had been planning a surprise for him, and still wanted to give it to him.  What _had_ he done to deserve it? 

John went to the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard above the sink for a minute, then returned with two glasses and a bottle of wine, and a small plastic bag.  He handed Sherlock the bag, and started pouring the wine. 

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, staring at the bag with a puzzled expression.

“Happy St. Nicholas’ day.  Shame you ran off before I could give it to you, you could have used it.  Too late now, you’re cut off for the night.”  
  
Sherlock opened the bag and found what looked like a crystal dish, wrapped in paper.  He raised an eyebrow at John, who giggled and said, “Ashtray.  Nicked it from the Gala last night,” and handed him a glass of wine. 

As Sherlock struggled to work through all the possible implications of such an eloquent gift (despite their sheer ridiculous unlikelihood, given his own abhorrent nature), the only thing he knew with any certainty was that he would never, ever deserve a friend as brilliant as John Watson.


	5. (Dec 7) Christmas cards

Sherlock still wasn’t sure how John managed to find him in a full-on black mood yesterday and pull it around so that they went to bed friends, and Sherlock was mostly right with the world.  It had never happened before. Anyone who’d previously tried to do such a thing had ended up bitterly disappointed, and had not been afraid to tell him so.  And Sherlock’s depressive fits were all-consuming; nothing he’d ever been able to reason with or trick himself out of.  They’d only ever ended with him getting as high as humanly possible without (intentionally) overdosing, before last night.

And yet, here they were, this morning.  Sherlock’s lungs were a little raw from smoking in subzero temperatures for so long, but otherwise he’d suffered no ill effects to his health or his relationships.  He was  _ having breakfast,  _ in fact.

(And yes, despite what John had told him several times already this morning, a cuppa and a slice of toast more than qualified.  Especially given the circumstances.)

Nothing made sense anymore.  He could accomplish nothing.  Everything was exhausting.  Ever since that stupid gala… this is why he didn’t  _ do _ ‘sentiment.’

He wasn’t sure he had a choice now, though.  Something had come unglued when he’d seen John dressed up at the gala, and he was afraid it was never going to go back to the way it was before.

Although if he were going to be honest with himself, what  _ was  _ it, before? Looking back at his entire friendship with John in light of this new… situation, it’s possible he’d been ignoring the precursors to this for a long time. Possibly always, as long as he’d known John.  Although it was entirely possible that he was so swept up in this madness that even his hindsight was being colored by it.    


This was  _ intolerable. _

He continued staring at the green tile wall in front of him and chewing on his toast, not so much looking for an answer as hoping one would come to him.

“So is this your plan for the day?” John asked.    


Sherlock looked up, startled.  “I’m sorry?” he managed after a second, his voice rusty.

“If you want to spend the day sitting around thinking that’s perfectly fine, but I have things I could do.  Or if you’re going to require my presence at some point, that’s fine too. I’d just like to know so I can get on with my day,” John said.

“Oh, I’m… yes, you can do whatever you’d like,” said Sherlock.    


“You sure everything’s OK?” John asked, a little concerned about Sherlock’s apparent confusion.

“Yes, fine, John,” Sherlock snapped, more like his usual self.  “I’ll be fine, you can run your errands or whatever you’re doing, and I promise won’t run off and get into trouble without you.”

This reassured John enough that he gathered his things and was off out in minutes.  Sherlock continued to sit at the kitchen table and gaze at the wall.  After about half an hour with no inspiration, he considered whether he was in over his head.

 

* * * 

 

He found himself in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, eating again for some reason.  This was a terrible idea.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?  Don’t lie to me, young man.  It’s not like you to seek out company when you’re looking this down, and that’s your third biscuit.” 

“I -- everything’s fine, Mrs. Hudson.  John was just out, so I thought I’d pop down and see... if you needed any help with those Christmas cards.”  Sherlock looked anywhere but at her face, desperately trying to maintain credibility.  She burst out laughing anyway.

“Sherlock Holmes, you most certainly did not.  But you can help me anyway.  Here, stick these labels on these envelopes, and then stack them over there,” she said, sliding everything across the table at him.  “Now tell me, what’s bothering you about John?” 

“How do you know that’s what it’s about?” he snapped, narrowing his eyes at her.

“What else could it be?” she replied, beaming.

“I don’t know, there isn’t really a  _ problem _ ,” he said, not technically admitting to anything out loud.  “It’s just -- you know me, Mrs. Hudson.  How long before it all… goes wrong?”

“Ah, Sherlock,” she said, with a sad, fond expression.  “You actually have no idea, do you.”

“About what?” he said suspiciously.

“Neither of you do though, silly things.  Well, I said I’d not get involved and I won’t, but you shouldn’t worry,” she said. “You’ll figure it out.  Now, keep stickering envelopes, or do you think I just feed you for free?  Not your housekeeper, young man!”  


End file.
